House of Red
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: One family. Two households. Three shades of red. -SebastianxCiel AU-
1. V

**Disclaimer: **Owning these characters would certainly be exciting. Unfortunately, I'm not an exciting person.

**Author's Note:** Long ago, livejournal's Noveltynovelist shared with me his plans for creating an AU Kuroshitsuji fanfic that revolved around Madam Red's… um, "house of ill repute," shall we say. Sebastian would be a transvestite there; Ciel would be Madam Red's charge. And there would be beautiful yaoi. Together, he and I brainstormed about this fic idea for a while—I threw out some plot suggestions, drew some fanart; he made an OST. But here we are, half a year later, and the fic still hasn't been written! And I couldn't just let the plot bunny die— I love it too much!

So here is my infinitely-less-cool, one-shot version of the story. Don't worry, it will hardly resemble the REAL version, if it ever comes out. (Honestly, this is just an excuse for me to play with a specific idea that I had suggested and fallen head-over-heels in love with.)

**Warnings: **AU. (And thus, a bit OOC in terms of the true canon, but I promise that I have my reasons.) Twisted. _**Intentionally out-of-order.**_ My first time writing for Grell. Yaoi. Non-con?

**PLEASE NOTE: **This was originally written to be a one-shot, divided into 19 different subsections. However, as it wound up being 34 pages long, I decided to make each little snippet its own "chapter" for the sake of convenience and easy reading. Still, this fic remains, at its core, a one-shot, and should read as such.

**Dedication: **For Noveltynovelist, since I'm borrowing this idea from you. (Write the REAL version soon! XD)

**XXX**

**X  
**

"**I am in blood**

**Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more,**

**Returning were as tedious as go o'er."**

**~William Shakespeare, "Macbeth"  
**

**X**

**  
**_**House of Red**_

**X**

**XXX**

**V. **

He lives in a little red room.

It's only appropriate, Aunt Ann croons when he complains about the hue's garishness— which is often, nowadays. It's only appropriate, she says (over and over and over again), because this _is_ the House of Red. And as she reminds him of this, her scarlet-painted lips quirk upward, and her burgundy-bathed body quivers with laughter, and she looks like a floating face against the vine-imbued wallpaper and the soft curtain of her own ruby hair: the paleness of her powdered flesh set against the garnet in an almost frightening contrast.

He nods, then, in the wake of this repetitiveness—dismissive, as if he can't bring himself to care about her reasoning— and returns to his books.

But Ciel Phantomhive doesn't get the joke. Of course he knows this is the House of Red—Madam Red and Aunt Ann are one in the same. His lavish cage of claret walls and crimson carpet and maroon divans and rosy candelabras lies in the very heart of the city's brothel; he has known that much since he was six. Yet, at the age of thirteen, he has come to the realization that some key fact is missing from this simple explanation… There is a glitter of almost-drunken amusement in the woman's wine-colored eyes, and it becomes all the more apparent when she reminds him of his home. It is a sparkle that Ciel doesn't quite understand, rather like the entandres that the whores wrap up in playful giggles, then leave as gifts outside his bedroom door: wimbling, snickering… a collaboration of medusa's snakes, begging, "young master, come out and play with us," asking if they might join him in the "cherry room."

_He doesn't understand. _

And he tells his caretaker this, glowering bitterly behind a china teacup.

"Perhaps the young master could be slightly more specific in regards to what he does not comprehend?"

Ciel's scowl becomes more pronounced, as dark as the leather that binds his favorite books. No, darker— as dark as the wood used to craft the small table before him. No… as dark as the young man looming beside him, dressed in a black-leather corset and clinging mesh tights. Yes, the man's existence is like a bruise— a midnight smudge over the blinding red of sunset. And the boy is thankful for the void of color, even while he continues to sneer.

"Don't be _cute, _Sebastian," Ciel snarls, crossing elegant legs as he continues to sip his tea. Peppermint today, to calm rising nerves. "You're not on the clock, despite what you're still wearing." He eyes the ensemble pointedly, in a vain attempt to degrade his companion.

But Sebastian simply chortles at the crack, flourishing long-nailed fingers as he bows; raven curls fall over a bare porcelain shoulder, straining against the band that holds them in a lofty ponytail. "On the contrary, young master," the transvestite smirks—white teeth even whiter as ebony bangs tickle angled cheeks. "I am not hired to be 'cute.'"

He tilts all the lower, gathering the remnants of tea and tartlets from Ciel's book-laden desk; it brings attention to his needle-thin stilettos, coiling seductively up the length of his long, fair legs. Ciel knows—from long hours of listening by the door—that the boots _click-clack, click-clack_ upon the wooden slats in the hall, like the song of a soothing metronome… but they barely make a whisper as Sebastian glides across the plush flooring of the boy's private suite.

The teenager shoots his personal servant a sidelong glance; admiring eyes caress, and invisible lips pepper airy kisses down the alluring length of the whore's arched back. The growing urge to replace his eyes with his hands and the air with his mouth makes Ciel's stomach twist into a sailor's knot. For some reason (as of yet, another tally on the list of Things He Does Not Fully Understand) the familiar sight of Sebastian's body has begun to steal his breath (his shame) away… With mounting skill, the boy manages to hide the hungry flick of his tongue with a lilting smirk, resting the curve of his chin against the knuckles of his right hand. "Oh?" he then teases, leaning a bit harder on his crooked arm. "So what _are_ you hired for, then, 'Sebas-chan?'"

Sebastian purses pink-glossed lips, clock-spring lashes lowering in distaste. "Is that one of the things you 'don't understand,' young master?" he inquires coolly, spinning away with a twirl of his lengthy extensions. Ciel watches with thinly-veined intrigue as his caretaker carries the laden silver tea tray into the other room, giving the boy a temporary, but magnificent view of Sebastian's exposed upper thighs.

"It's not so much that I don't understand," he curtly corrects when Sebastian returns—of course to find Ciel deeply engrossed in the pages of his book. (Though he does not fail to notice that his charge's cheeks look just slightly more _flushed_ than they had before he'd first turned around.) "It's that I want to know more. And I want _you_ to explain it to me."

Inquiring cobalt eyes swivel upward, piercing and demanding; this display of will is matched only by the obduracy of the other's rose-tea stare. "It is not something you should concern yourself with, young master," Sebastian then intones, resolute. "You have studies to attend to. Don't you want the knowledge necessary to escape this place, and to revive your deceased father's company?"

"No, that's what _you_ want me to do." Ciel snorts, snapping the tome in his lap decidedly shut—the most basic of tantrums. "And you know, I hate hypocrites like you," the boy continues in a drone, revulsion coloring his annoyed drawl. He pushes his study material pointedly away, crossing stubborn arms over his chest. "You tell me to act like an adult, yet you won't answer my questions about _being_ an adult. How am I supposed to be both an adult _and_ a child?"

For a moment, Sebastian seems on the verge of rolling his eyes… but both know it won't happen. He has too much pride, too much class; such displays of annoyance are beneath him. Instead, the prostitute allows the faintest puff of a sigh to escape his pretty lips, then proceeds to kneel before his little master's chair. His folded hands unfurl across the luxurious expanse of the velvet armrest; their sudden proximity to his skin makes the little hairs on the boy's arm stand on end. "The intricacies of my line of work is hardly knowledge that the average adult needs in his repertoire," Sebastian levels, in that low, liquid-silk voice that makes everyone— customers, patrons, Madam Red, the other Ladies (and yes, even Ciel)—lean subconsciously closer, as if pulled in by twining, invisible spider threads. "But…" —and here the child's face lights up, for he knows that he has won— "…if it will make you study harder, I will answer one question."

"Alright, then." Ciel grins like the Cheshire cat—a silent gloat that Sebastian finds unbecoming; he makes a mental note to try and correct his charge of this atrocious behavior— and drums his steepled fingers. And furrows his pallid brow. And generally makes a show of considering possibly queries, but Sebastian is not fooled. He can tell by the clench of the boy's lower jaw that a question is already dancing on the tip of his tongue… has probably been lingering there for a long while, now. And finally, Ciel allows it to fall carefully from its perch. "A few weeks ago… I happened to see the insides of your room."

"Did you." Sebastian does not say anything more, but his gaze shows disapproval for Ciel's sneaking ways. Another bad habit to stamp out…

"You have so many things in there, Sebastian," the child presses on in an almost breathless wonder, morbid curiosity lighting up his azure eyes. "Whips and chains and knives… objects I didn't recognize, or even realized exist. And I _know_ that you use them on your clients—that's why you sometimes come to serve me covered in blood that isn't your own."

The elder of the two looks even more displeased. "Something _else_ you saw while poking about, hm?" he guesses, and is not surprised when Ciel refuses to answer. Not that it matters—Sebastian will never snitch to Madam Red about his charge's escapades outside of the cherry room. Sebastian will never betray his trust… "And I _do_ hope we'll get to your question, at some point."

"My question, then, is this," Ciel decrees, still patently ignoring his servant's annoyance. "Why, exactly, do people come to you to be hurt?" He watches Sebastian's changing expressions with a steady gaze: half-part innocent curiosity, half-part feral interest. "You're a whore, aren't you? What pleasure is there to be gained in pain?"

For a full minute, Sebastian does not respond. He kneels there, face tilted, head cocked, eyes as hard as marbles beneath his stylishly wispy bangs—the very picture of solemnity. Then, slowly, he reaches out a tender hand…

And pinches Ciel's cheek. Hard.

The boy _shrieks_— jumps— feels his face flame as Sebastian happily mumbles something about kitten paws. "What the hell are you _doing_—?!" Ciel roars, vainly attempting to collect his thoughts as he rips himself away, so quickly that the transvestite's claws leave thick, magenta welts down the expanse of his pale flesh. A small hand leaps automatically to the throbbing injury, fury radiating from every pore of his body as Sebastian muffles another laugh. "Sebastian! The sheer _audacity—!_"

"How do you feel, young master?" the prostitute interrupts in a sly coo, resting his chin atop crisscrossed arms. "Does it hurt?"

Ciel is seething visibly, at this point. "Of _course_ it hurts, you twat! How _dare_ you attack me like that?! Know your place! If you _ever_ try to do that to me again, I'll—!"

"How about now?"

"You—" The child blinks, put off by his servant's perpetually cheerful smile. "_What?_ Are you completely _stupid_…?" But Ciel's question trails off uncertainly as he lowers his palm, bafflement taking hold of his blushing features. He reconsiders. And no, his cheek _doesn't_ hurt anymore. True, he can still feel the ghost of Sebastian's yanking fingers, and the warm pulse of his own rushing blood, and the path that sharp nails had so recently carved along his face… but there is no _pain,_ per say. Just a pleasant tingling, lingering beneath his skin.

Sebastian's grin widens with a flash of canines as Ciel dons an expression of strange realization; the prostitute pushes himself back to his feet, off to gather his master's nighttime apparel. "Pain and pleasure are really one in the same, young master," he says as he wanders about Ciel's quarters, wholly aware that the boy's stare never once leaves him. No, those wide, wondering eyes never, ever leave him… "It all depends on the purpose of said pain, and who inflicts it."

Ciel mulls over this, allowing his fingers to, again, lightly kiss the remnants of Sebastian's lesson. And the more he ponders, the more his cheek—and other, less explored parts of his body—begins to throb. It reminds him of the dreams he sometimes has, the ones that leave his sheets wet and his skin sticky and his throat dry: lips quivering as they repeat the same name over and over and over… And he repeats it now, as well.

"Sebastian?" he whispers, fingers balling into fists as he clenches at his knees. There is embarrassment (desire) in his hoarse voice— the emotion is so consuming that Sebastian can't keep from pausing in his work. In spite of himself, he casts his master a sidelong glance. "If I asked… Would you teach me about _other_ kinds of pain and pleasure? Kinds more… directly related to your line of work?"

His caretaker's shoulders stiffen. Twitching fingers clench in a soft cotton nightshirt, so recently unfolded and ironed for bed.

"…no," Sebastian then breathes, turning to face his charge with an apologetic smile. "I would not, young master."


	2. X

**X. **

The boy's world inverts: black is red, and red is black.

"Se… bastian…" Ciel hisses, his voice low and lush in the slippery shadows. Darkness— it clings to the walls, the ceiling, the sides of the bed: the pair seems to float amongst monochrome waves of crumpled satin. He can hardly see his soon-to-be lover through the gloom; demanding hands (tinted scarlet-cinnamon with lust) weave through shifting strands of glossed ebony, confirming the older man's presence, refusing to let him go.

There is no escape.

And Sebastian realizes this, trapped as he is beneath his smirking charge— splayed, bare, his only covering Ciel's narrow hips, which have straddled his own in a wanton display of desire. There is no evading his master now: no way to ignore the child's whimpers and snarls, the tickling of each warm gasp against sensitive flesh, the teasing trail of kisses that he plants from the whore's collar to his temple… Well-taught, and too eager to be tested. Confident. Dangerous. Human canteralla: sweet and seductive, but still a deadly toxin, promising hell to any servant who dares to deny him his wishes.

Sebastian will not deny. Sebastian cannot deny.

And he can only hope the poison kills him.

"What does the young master want, I wonder?" the prostitute purrs, lashes fluttering in a mockery of innocuous confusion. Ten spidery fingers tip-toe up the staircase of the boy's fragile spine, leaving moans and shivers in their wake. Inexperienced hips buck; the spontaneity of the action is enough to make both men groan.

"_Sebastian…_" Another whisper, thick and desperate. Ciel is not consciously listening, but the unintended response is oddly appropriate.

"Oh? You want me?" The soft voice sounds amused; a velvet chuckle resonates in the boy's overheated ears, like the rushing of his blood. "How flattering..."

Painted nails curl around quivering shoulders, yank _down. _A delicious grind; breath is lost like so many coherent thoughts. Like so much sanity. The undulating motion makes tiny fingers clench, squeezing until they're no longer clutching anything at all… And Ciel topples, curling forward like a kitten upon Sebastian's chest. Dazed with desire, the boy hardly notices the tumble; his eyes glaze, lips pout, and the little kitty—never having felt such pleasure in his short, pampered life— rubs (nose to nose), rubs (chest to chest), _rubs_ (groin to groin) against his elder… Before immediately forgetting such trivial delights. For it is then that tongue and finger (one in each willing mouth) are lost inside of him: searching and stretching and _finding_ and _petting_ and the boy can't swallow back his yowl of delight, thrusting backwards even as he tries to lean into the kiss.

It burns. Like a roaring inferno, like Biblical hellfire—like the House itself has been set alight, and he is now trapped within the heart of the blaze. His insides (writhing, tightening, becoming one blissful entity), his outsides (clammy, slickened, a blushing crimson); Sebastian's kisses turn everything to ash. Like a bite of fleshy fruit— like a taste of Eve's damnation—, the merciless heat of each tawdry embrace rages a path through Ciel's gaping mouth, sears its way down his throat, and settles in the deepest, uncharted depths of his low, low tummy: twisting, braiding, and balling itself into the hottest of suns, burning as red as an apple.

Sebastian's claret eyes glisten like embers in the moonlight, and just as the world loses color entirely, Ciel decides that not _all_ shades of red are repulsive.


	3. VI

**VI. **

The world in the glass is concave and beautiful, tinted a rich shade of burgundy. Candlelight swirls in pastel patches atop the liquid-mirror surface; the familiarities of the dining room flare out or bulge inward depending on where they appear in his full goblet. At the correct angle, he can even see the reflection of his aunt's lips, pursing and pulling as they form each word of whatever-it-is-she's-saying, and for a moment it almost looks as if he might be paying attention.

But Madam Red is not fooled.

"Darling, what have I told you about playing with your food? And drink? And utensils in general?" she chastises fondly, setting aside her own golden silverware. A white napkin is pulled demurely from her lap, and she pats away imperceptible crumbs; the pale cloth soon sports a bloody kiss. "Honestly," the woman gripes as she does so, "this just goes to show how very right I am: that Sebastian is absolutely worthless. If he can't do so much as teach you proper etiquette…"

Ciel instinctively straightens in his high-backed chair. "Sebastian does a fine job of teaching me," he retorts tersely, making no effort to hide his impudent glare. "I just see no reason to utilize such skills here. After all, I'm not in the presence of anyone noteworthy."

His aunt's thin eyebrow forms a high arch. "Insolent, too? Sebastian is worse than I thought. You were once so sweet and kind…"

A snort. "Insolence is something that no one will ever be able to rid me of, no matter what they try," the child drawls, resting his chin atop bent fingers. With his free hand, he begins to twirl his salad fork, happily aware of the faux pas of doing so. "Don't go giving Sebastian all of the credit— I made myself this way without his help."

Madam Red is not amused. "Precious," she tries again, standing and slowly sidling forward; step, step, step. Her trailing maroon gown rustles whenever it brushes against the linins that swathe the decedent mahogany table. "Dear heart, you know how I feel about That Man. Please, if you're hiding any discontentment from me… if you think, even if only in passing, that maybe—just maybe— you might enjoy someone else's company… you need only let me know."

With this, as if timed, the young woman slides behind her nephew, her presence marked by a waft of spider lily perfume. And, like a spider (never a flower), she tries to ensnare him: ruffled cuffs sigh as she reaches out and around the scrolled back of Ciel's chair, cradling his head to her ample, ruby-drenched breast. "I'd just as soon throw the bastard out, leave him on a side street, and hire you a different caretaker. Or perhaps some private tutors?" There is a smile and a promise in his aunt's wheedling voice as she leans closer, whispering. "Only the best for you, my love. Any subject you like. Or are you more interested in a new toy? Some pretty books—?"

Ciel makes an aggravated sound in the back of his throat, something between a scoff and a snarl. A single hand lifts, bats, and forces encroaching limbs out of his way; the gesture is accompanied by the most venomous of glowers. "Stop it, auntie, or I shall become cross with you," the boy snaps, pushing himself away from the table. He shows no disregard for the way his seat might have slammed into the madam, were she not paying enough attention to step out of its path. But then, she does not seem overly concerned by the attack, either; rather, her face is full of preoccupation, wobbling in fear of Ciel's displeasure. "How many times must I say it? I will allow no one to serve me but Sebastian. It has been that way since my parents died, and it shall remain that way until I join them in death."

He dusts down his sapphire jacket—so vividly out-of-place in this scarlet room— and offers his aunt the most saccharine of his spiteful smiles. "So hate him as much as you will, Madam Red, but no matter what you say, my feelings will stay the same. I want him by my side, and that will never change."


	4. XVI

**XVI. **

The flash of flesh cuts through the air like summer lightening, and the resounding _crack_ echoes as thunder in their throbbing ears. Loud enough to shatter glass, sharp enough to slice through bone— the beginnings of a true tempest, dangerous and deadly. Around him, the winds of wrath wind; his eyes fill with rain as his weak body trembles, caught in a storm of raging emotions.

And all the while, kneeling piteously on the vomit-stained floor, Sebastian waits. He waits, and says nothing— downcast eyes watching the steady stream of blood that drips, drips, drips from his chin, falling like tears against the unforgiving ground. But the sight falls upon a pitiless audience… Ciel's hand remains raised, tense. Spasming. From over a half-lifted shoulder, he regards his wilted servant—looming insanity swirling in the cobalt depths of his wide blue gaze.

For ten full minutes, the pair simply breathes. But each inhale leaves the air a little thicker, and the resulting exhale increases the tension tenfold. Electricity crackles in every pore, every molecule, every _fiber_ of every being both mortal and manmade. Sebastian's abused cheek morphs steadily from dried crimson to yellow-violet; he makes no attempt to address the injury. Not when the emotional—mental— wounds are so much more dire…

A staggered hiss, the grind of teeth. "…_is it true?_" Ciel demands quietly, each word ripped from the back of his throat. Every syllable drips with winter ice.

Hesitation. Sebastian chokes on his reply, nails ripping holes into the carpet. For a moment, he looks as if he's stopped breathing entirely— but then he grimaces, and gags, and bows his head still-lower, hiding his face behind an obnoxious curtain of fake, matted curls. "_I'm sorry_," he whimpers, in a voice so muffled and full of self-loathing that Ciel almost screams… but settles instead with swinging his arm out a second time, nearly shattering his wrist as it makes contact with the opposite side of the prostitute's head.

Another _crack_, another silent screech. The ponytail of raven ringlets jostles, loosened; pins fly everywhere. Sebastian doesn't even try to evade the attack.

And his lack of fight steals all the strength from Ciel's legs. Winded, body numb from pain and sinking realization, he crumples before his caretaker, fighting back another wave of nausea.

"…_why_?" the boy finally manages, vice-like fingers clasped protectively over his ashen face. As if that might seal away the horror. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?!" In the wake of this blinding rage, this unparalleled disgust, this strange fear that he's never known to be possible, Ciel's body (his psyche) begins to crumple in upon itself…

And Sebastian, ever so slowly, glances upward, agony in his haunted eyes.

"I had to protect you," he murmurs, dismayed. He, too, has started to quake… The loosened locks atop his crown surrender to these shudders, forgo their grip upon his skull; ruby fluids and buttery sweat continue to ooze, washing away any remaining traces of feminine makeup. And with stomach-dropping rapidity, Ciel is left staring into the face of a desperate man, rather than that of an emotional woman. "I _live_ to protect you. It was the only way…"

This knowledge only increases Ciel's feelings of crazed despair. "Why didn't you _stop_ me, then?!" the boy roars, leaning forward and into Sebastian's line of avoidant vision. No longer able to control himself, panic's unrelenting talons sinking in, Ciel's frantic hands join the fray—acting as if in personification: clutching and yanking and tugging at the older man's clothes, trying to jostle a response from him. A response that isn't the truth, because he knows—

"I tried," the whore reminds, heavy of face and soft of tone. "I _tried_."

Silence.

Ciel cannot deny it. And for a fleeting eternity the two simply sit there, facing one another… heads bowed and ears ringing and the air around them churning with questions, answers, repulsion, desire, comprehension, denial, hatred, adoration.

With an almost child-like terror— so much hesitation in the action that it almost physically hurts them both— Ciel reaches out to lay the very tips of his fingers upon Sebastian's rag-covered knees. They quiver as one, breath hitching as serpentine innards knot.

"…why?" the boy asks once more, though now in a voice devoid of shock. The previous emotion has been replaced, usurped by anesthetized adulation. "Why would you do this?"

Another pause— full of suspense, of uncertainty. But soon, with a timorously wavering, a slender hand is ghosting atop Ciel's… falling to rest. There is a little hitched sigh. And the passing of that staggered moan finds the mismatched sets of fingers urgently intertwined; the older man brushes a lingering kiss to the back of his charge's porcelain palm.

"_Because I love you_," Sebastian breathes, and his fervent voice—body—aura— radiates so much unbridled affection that the child can feel his heart skip a beat. "I love you more than anything else in the entire world…"

Sebastian lifts their coiled hands delicately upward, nuzzling his cheek against the warmth of the chaste embrace. Another butterfly kiss; skin glides over skin with sordid ease, lubricated by browning blood and torrid tears. And when he speaks next, the boy can feel each wrenching words being whispered directly into his flesh… into his heart… into his soul...

Eyes of autumn meet those of ocean, and neither will ever look away again.

"You're all that I have, Ciel."


	5. XI

**XI.**

Behind an unnoticed crack in the once-locked door, golden eyes flash an envious shade of green.


	6. IX

**IX.**

He has heard it said (and has read as much in pennydreadfuls) that anger leaves one 'seeing red.' A stupid cliché, to be sure: one that would make very little sense, he thinks, in any other context outside of this bordello. But the bordello this is, and thus— in situations like these—, Sebastian finds himself inclined to believe in the sentiment… Though perhaps, he is a biased (and rather literal) source of agreement.

"Do mine eyes deceive me, or is that my beloved Sebas-chan I see?"

Behind a demurely lifted hand, covered in woven-blood netting, a burgundy-bathed transvestite titters appreciatively—a lion's delight upon seeing a future meal. But this feline's prey (black-clad back pressed to the wallpaper of the decorative dead end, his silky lips curling upward in distaste) refuses to be an easy catch.

And that is the way this lioness likes it.

"It is, of course, possible that your eyes deceive you, Madam Grell," Sebastian returns politely, though his luscious voice remains lightly veiled in malice. "For your eyesight—and eyewear—are atrocious indeed." He punctuates this pronouncement with a gracious dip forward, an underling greeting his elder; midnight petticoats bell outward in a curtsy, and dark eyes flash with odium.

A coy giggle, a tilt of the head. Said eyewear is readjusted, the cranberry rims of the rectangular glasses glittering in the candlelight. "Such cruel words, Sebas-chan," Grell pouts, long lashes fluttering in a strange mixture of amusement and annoyance. "You know I feel nothing but the deepest love for you. Why must you constantly squash my poor heart beneath your heel? Not that I don't _also_ love the feel of your heel…" Long lips leer; Grell's mouth strains ever-higher as his golden gaze trails up, down, up. But merely looking isn't enough anymore, and soon layers of silken finery are whispering over the lacquered floorboards, their quiet murmurs punctured by the swaying clatter of carefully-coiled gems. Pink pearls, garnets, rubies; they glitter like decadent shackles, bound 'round arms and throat.

And with an unexpected flick of the wrist, one such chain is lassoed about Sebastian's neck.

"What—?" Understandably startled, almost spiting with rage at this undignified assault, Sebastian resists the unconventional summons as much as he dares—but in the end, is yanked easily (pointedly) forward, the tug as harsh as Grell's smile is languid.

"Do you know what else I love, Sebas-chan?" the cheerful drag queen coos, a pale fist tightening around his subordinate's make-shift collar, even as china-white fingers dart out to trace meaningless patterns down the front of Sebastian's beaded corset. The gesture makes the taller man shiver, yes, but from trepidation, rather than desire. Either way, his reaction gives Grell's smile teeth. And those teeth clatter perceptibly as the shorter man leans forward; a conspirator with a secret, which he croons into the night: "I _love_ to tattle."

Sebastian says nothing. But Grell can see the flicker of concern that has already alighted itself behind those exquisite eyes… Eyes like old sin, dried blood, lost innocence.

"Really, is there anything more _satisfying?_" the one in dapper scarlet persists in a moan, tingles of delight adding color to his cheeks. "To watch someone who has wronged you get in trouble… to see a child cry, an enemy suffer for their crimes… and best yet, you don't even have to get your own hands dirty! You just have to say—"

In an unexpected rush, Grell bounds forward, swift and snarling: one hand slams into the stripped wall, the other yanks his fistful of garnets forcefully downward; cold gems cut into tender flesh as fetid breath whispers:

"—'_Guess what I saw Sebastian doing with your darling nephew, Madam Red?_'"

Eyes bulge. Muscles tighten. Blood runs cold. And for the briefest of spells, Sebastian's mind races: he considers snapping the necklace that binds him— clawing at his oppressor, using the remaining string to strangle the _creature_ before him—!

But then Grell hums, loosens his grip, and sighs daintily, taking the tiniest step backward. "Of course," he continues, in a blithe tone that would never suggest the ferocity of moments before, "that would be something of a lie, as of now. For while I've surmised _some_ dirty secrets, and have heard a _few_ scintillating rumors, as of yet, I haven't really _seen_ anything at all." He bats innocent eyelashes, nibbling on the bone of his knuckle. "Which is a good thing, don't you think? After all, such a sight would truly break my heart. And in such a state, who _knows_ what I'd say to my dear mistress?"

Golden eyes flit sideways, and there is nothing but callous delight in their lusty depths.

Sebastian's gut heaves; bowels turn to water, then stone, then vanish entirely. Revulsion radiates from the very core of his being— it is only through years of necessary self-training that he manages to swallow back rising bile. But for all of his calming breaths, he can still feel his nails grinding into the clammy flesh of his palms, drawing out liquid that loops and curls over planes of contorted flesh like thin threads of crimson. He knows where this is going… but still, forces himself to confirm it. "Yet, can we really trust what your eyes see?" he thus asks through gnashing teeth, only managing to resist the urge to kick his companion by reminding himself that the freak would enjoy it. Immensely. "As previously discussed, your eyesight is notoriously bad."

Grell smirks. But oh, one's 'true colors' aren't ladylike at all, and so, with conscientious effort, he rearranges his sinister leer into a girlish beam. To emphasize this assumed disposition, he proceeds to lift a ruby -laden hand to his over-rouged cheek. "Why, how right you are, Sebas-chan," the man sings, toying playfully with his own baubles and beads. "In which case, you should make sure that you and the young master don't get involved in anything that might _confuse_ me—"

"Or _displease_ you," Sebastian cuts in snidely, disregarding any mask of courtesy now that he has fully comprehended the situation. "Or else you might just 'hallucinate' something, correct?"

And the bastard _purrs._

"My my. Gorgeous _and_ brilliant. Can I pick my men, or what?" A rhetorical question, full of gloating. Perhaps even _warranted_ gloating. For Grell—despite all appearances otherwise—can transform himself a genius, if the price is right: and there is no greater prize in this blood-stained treasure chest of a House than the mystery known as Sebastian. And now, after years of pining and searching, he has finally found the right key for the lock… Clearly relishing this moment of victory, the claret-colored transvestite bubbles to himself, thrilled by his own brilliance, and shoots his underling so many sidelong glances that his eyes begin to flicker, as if in dream.

"Now then, my wingless blackbird," the sauntering whore giggles, wrapping long, shrouded arms around his snared and seething victim. "Why don't you do yourself a favor, and help me forget the young master entirely?"


	7. XIX

**XIX. **

He can no longer see red. And for that, he is wholly and utterly grateful.

"_You killed her! You killed_ _her! She's dead _again_, and you _killed_ her!" _The screech of a banshee resounds and reverberates, bouncing off of stone walls and high ceilings and aching eardrums until it becomes nothing more than a high-pitched buzz, muffled by the rushing (gushing) of blood. From somewhere that seems far away— its approaching whistle drowned out by shrieks of madness— a leather whip makes contact. Yet, he no longer suffers from its bite.

No, he can no longer see red. He can no longer see black.

But then, Sebastian can no longer see _anything_. Color, depth, form… in their place is only emptiness: a void where both sight and sensation used to reside. Good or bad, all feeling has long since been drained from his broken body; he half-thinks that his nerves have turned to liquid, and—like so many other bodily juices— chosen to escape the confines of his flesh. For a time, he could at least feel the fluids dribbling down his front… could hear the tear-soft _drip_, _drip_, _drip _of oozing life as acerbic sweat and blood formed puddles on the concrete floor. Now, however, even sound is trying to leave him: the inhuman wails from the madam are softening into fuzzy whispers, as if muted by cotton.

"_You killed her!_" Another grief-crazed howl, another snap of the whip; there is rumbling, shuddering, a loud _crack_. The blow resonates around the transvestite like an earthquake— one with its epicenter miles in the distance. It hardly registers in his consciousness, anymore. But then, almost nothing does: he no longer perceives the jangling shackles beside his ears, notices the jarring screech of chain link metal-on-metal, nor recognizes the agony that each swipe bestows upon him, even as it leaves him seizing. "_You killed her! You killed her! I'll _kill _you!_"

_I'll kill you._

And in his mind (for he can no longer move the muscles of his mouth) Sebastian smiles. Because yes, this is the end—she will most certainly kill him. After all of his hard work, so many days and nights of humiliation, of pain, of lies, of horrors the likes of which no human, man or woman (or both), should ever have to go through… for all of this, this is his reward. He is now moments away from death.

Who could ask for anything more?

_I'll join you soon, Ciel_, the fading man thinks, even as language dribbles from his malfunctioning brain— trickles away as gray matter, down the gashed mask that had once been a face, mixing with tears and spit and life and relief. _Just a little longer… and we'll be together. Wait for me…_

And with a final blow, the House is painted a stunning shade of Red.


	8. VIII

**VIII. **

Leg over leg, fingertip to fingertip, the boy lounges like a king upon his looming wingback chair. Such a presumptuous creature Ciel Phantomhive makes: even devoid of his ruffles and lace, he holds himself as royalty, Far Better Than Thou, watching his servant from over the temple of his lightly-folded hands. Through the indigo darkness, his azure eyes flash—and the whore is reminded that the brightest, hottest part of a flame is its molten blue core.

"Strip for me, Sebastian."

The voice is silken, lilted, still sugary with the innocence of youth… but close (so close, too close) to the adulterous whisper of velvet for which the transvestite himself is known. More disturbing still: in its own way, Ciel's murmur is far more intoxicating than any other sound in the world— full of a rare mixture of debauchery and naivety. The command of a boy who may be childish, may be young, but is fully aware of his own powers… completely in control.

This game has gone too far. But there is no way to stop playing, now.

And so, helplessly, Sebastian does as he is ordered: willowy fingers lift, curl, cradle the back of his neck… an ebony choker clatters to the floor, its beads shining white in the moonlight.

"Faster, Sebastian."

Dexterous hands start working on a high-necked collar, down a row of dark pearl buttons. His shoulders shift, his arms strain; a thick braid of raven hair bounces with each swift rearrangement. Gradually, the second layer, his cloth skin, is pealed gingerly away, and flashes of pale flesh are revealed. Ciel watches his caretaker's actions with hooded, impartial eyes, as if at the theatre. But if this is a theatre, then it is an empty one: a solo spotlight, an empty pit, a single member in the vacant audience. As it should be. For the scene and setting are so much more _dramatic _with the absence of light and music and others: nothing to distract from the scenery but the sound of bustling fabric— a starched rustling as the dress slips from around slim hips, ringing heeled feet.

Thus disrobed, Sebastian stands in his point-toed shoes and underwear, face tilted forward as if in abject shame… But all the while, his somber gaze remains locked with Ciel's, lips pursed into a thin line.

Upon his maroon throne, the boy cocks an arrogant eyebrow. "What are you waiting for?" he demands, rearranging his weight atop his throne. "I didn't tell you to stop."

And so the butterfly continues to dispose of his cocoon. Without a word, Sebastian bends over; a tightly toned rear pops into the air. But somehow, his hands distract from the temptations of those curves: sliding swiftly, caressing from ankle to kneecap, loosening the ties that have crawl up his thighs. The speed at which his fingers fly is incredible— boots of midnight leather are soon sliding off and disappearing, blending into the shadows. Stockings of crisscrossed threads quickly follow, along with the laced bands that kept them in place.

"The wig, too."

Sebastian nods; he hasn't forgotten. Still slightly bent, eyes upon his master, the whore's exposed arms arch and stretch as if in mid-yawn; moments later, there is the tinny ring of fifteen pins dropping, one atop the other. It is like the end of a magic trick: two hands return from behind Sebastian's back, and with them he holds his prize. Gently, the rope of plated hair is lowered to the floor, left to coil upon the carpet like a slumbering python.

He straightens. The metamorphosis is almost complete; nothing but a corset and too-small panties protect his modesty, now. And Sebastian can see, through the moon-bright darkness, that Ciel is growing excited: shifting far less subtly, and far more often. Like any other experienced performer, the prostitute pretends to ignore this, concentrating instead on the series of laces that serve as his last hurdle, his final defense.

He loosens, he pulls; the hiss of silk cord is a cry for mercy. It goes unheard— for when the opening curtain lifts (or, rather, falls), the audience is too enthralled to notice anything else. Ciel's vibrant eyes, glowing like illuminated sapphires through the gloom, sparkle with need and curiosity; he studies the body before him with the enthusiasm of a student, of a voyeur, of the teenager he is becoming. An appreciative hum escapes those pretty lips, a verbal ovation for the beautiful woman who has become a breathtaking man.

"Now, then, Sebastian," the needy boy whispers, voice crackling as he parts his lithe, lissome legs. Between them, straining against navy silk breeches, a demanding lump has swelled. "Teach me how to deal with this."


	9. XII

**XII.**

"Do you hate me now?"

They lay together in the gloom of the afterglow, bodies cooling atop a cloud wrinkled sheets. Ciel does not have the strength (of will nor body) to move away; Sebastian allows him to remain sprawled atop his chest, but does not seem overly thrilled by the contact.

Even still, the servant cocks a thin eyebrow. "Why would you think that, young master?" he asks quietly, in a voice both monotonous and stained with puzzlement.

The boy gives a sort of half-shrug, resting his chin atop stacked arms. Through the casted silhouettes of bed stand and book shelves, somnolent gazes meet. "I don't know," he then verbalizes, equally soft in the wake of his raw throat. He can still hear his own pleasured screeching in his ears… "I suppose since you look so angry."

Sebastian's face remains impassive. "If I am angry, it is not with you," he assures, before once again twisting his head pointedly away. "It is with the situation, or with myself."

"Hm." Ciel can't bring himself to care anymore than that—he feels far too content to concern himself with the regrets or whining of his caretaker. "Of course," the child then adds in afterthought, cuddling all the closer to the warmth of Sebastian's damp chest, "even if you _did_ start to hate me, it wouldn't matter. You'd still have to serve me, and do my bidding. You're mine. And I won't ever allow you to leave me…"

The child isn't aware that he'd wrapped his arms around the older man's neck until the servant responds. And even then, he only notices because the following words are murmured directly into his ear… melodious and distant and sad. "You'll have to let me go someday, young master," the servant reminds, biting back a weary sigh. "If you don't, how will you ever leave this place?"

"I won't."

The answer comes with no hesitation, no barbs: honest in a way that only drunks and those high on sleepy satisfaction can bring themselves to be. "I won't… or I can't," Ciel soon amends, nuzzling his face into the nape of his servant's slender neck. It smells of everything he's even known in life: perfume, sweat, powder, tea. He inhales it like a drowning man would any other kind of air… "I know you want me to, Sebastian, but I could never leave this place…" A swallow; the whore can feel it (and the child's flaming cheeks) against his clavicle. "Not ever…

"Not when you're here."

For what feels like an eternity, Sebastian does not respond.

But then strong arms wrap around Ciel's trembling back, and a meandering tear tickles the tip of the boy's buried nose.


	10. II

**II. **

The manor is swallowed in Red.

Stately gardens, walls of ivory, colored glass; maids, chefs, gardeners, pets; even the master and the mistress themselves. Everything and everyone who had, at one point, been associated with the opulence known as the Phantomhive Estate now lies buried beneath layers of fire and ash—a British Pompeii. And the flames only continue to dance higher and higher, reach outward, peal backward: blossoming like a murderous flower…

The sky above the roaring rose cries frozen white tears.

"…they're all dead," the twelve-year-old whispers. His breath clouds before him, like so much smoke—his eyes burn crimson as they gaze upon the curtain of flames. In his arms, a squirming toddler screams… but shock has drowned out all but the malignant growl of the inferno. It sounds like laughter to the boy, as if the devil himself is mocking him: _everyone is dead_. Everyone except himself and—

He starts, as if only just remembering the baby he carries. But no, he hadn't forgotten, not for a moment. After all, _he_ was the one who had yanked the tot from the comforts of his crib— saving him, protecting him, as duty dictates. Yes, his duty, and his alone; even still, he had hoped that, perhaps, a single nursemaid might escape, as well, and stumble out into the cold… Yet the passing of an hour has killed all such optimism.

There will be no other survivors. There will be no sudden miracles. The Phantomhive yard is now nothing more than a tomb, watched over by two children in snow-swirled nightclothes. But they are far from ethereal spectators: they are cold, and hungry, and scared, and forlorn. And soon, Sebastian knows, they will join the deceased—unless he can think of some way to save them.


	11. XIV

**XIV. **

He knows—and has known since the days of his childhood— that she is slowly slipping into Darkness. Into insanity. Into Wonderland: her brain is full of joy and lunacy, and she has followed the white rabbit through every hole and tunnel. Sunny days of youth remain clouded in her mind, clearing sometimes, while occasional distorting into shots of reality: a reality that she cannot bear. So this Alice drinks potions to the kill memories, eats candies to warp her mind… But though the paint of her smile, psychosis lingers.

And he brings out the worst of it.

"_You swine!_" A braided whip of tanned leather comes down with a _snap_, branding Sebastian's bare chest with its kiss. His face contorts, his body seizes against his shackles— but he does not make a sound. He never makes a sound…

_The impertinence. _His silence only further infuriates the brutal mistress; gloves of crimson lace squeak as trembling fists tighten. "_How _dare_ you?!_" Madam Red shrieks, arm pin-wheeling backwards to deliver another blow. "_I hate you! I _hate_ you! _I won't let you have her!"

Raw, boiling panic begins to well in the woman's vivid eyes—he half expects to see her ruby irises melt, then stream down her cheeks as rivers of scalded blood. But no: the only blood seen here will be his own. The sight of his agony soothes her soul; she craves such comforts all the more as her anxiety mounts, and takes its toll on her coordination. The graceful arcs of the corded weapon peter out, along with accurate aim; soon Madam Red is simply lashing the whip back and forth, back and forth, as if swinging some sort of roped bat. The end of the leather strip clips his ear, his chin, his shoulder, his thigh… and all the while, the mistress wheezes, choking on phlegm and tears, sagging slowly to the ground as her squalling become whimpers.

"_I won't let you take Rachel from me!_"

She tries to brandish the weapon once more, but finds herself no longer able; she lacks the leverage, now that she kneels upon the floor. _Useless. _Disgusted, the madam hurls the handle into the shadows, and uses the resulting inertial to scrape a rosy trail across Sebastian's cheek. "No! I won't let you— not again… not again!"

The man cringes, shudders, tries to look away— not from pain, but from pity. For the sight of the filthy, croaking, _desperate_ young woman is nearly more than he can bear. Seeing her there… yearning, pining, fighting onward the only way she knows how… How can he blame her? How could he dare? How, when he understands? He more than anybody else: the kind of love that drives one to the brink of madness…

But when he opens his mouth to try and comfort—

"_No!_" Madam Red jumps forward with a distorted screech, hands extended and soon pounding, pounding, pounding away, her face buried in the grime of his battered chest. Salt drips into the wounds; Sebastian swallows back a strangled scream. "_No!_ She's _mine_, Vincent! You can't have her! You can't!" Another wail, another sob. Thumping fists gradually slow, to be replaced by desperate clawing: raking, then grazing, then gliding, then nothing but fading pink lines… And when she next looks up, imploringly, into the familiar face above her, the mistress wears the mask of a scorned teenage lover. "Why?" the woman whispers, uncomprehending and far, far away, as her trembling fingers weave through locks of shaggy, matted black. She yanks herself closer; she smells of malted mead. "Why, Vincent? Why do you even _want _her?! _Why?! Why didn't you love _me…?!"

Her jeweled hands constrict. Ring bands tweak at tender hairs; gems create imprints of themselves, leaving violet impressions upon his already-discolored flesh. He can feel his skull straining, creaking, groaning, caught in her vice... But as the chained whore winces, trying to break away, he hears himself choke on a faint "Madam Red—!"

The name is a trigger; the woman's clouded eyes clear. Realization sets in. Dark, cruel, revolting— she yelps, appalled, as she pushes the bleeding man away from her, as if he were some sort of leper. As if he were some sort of plague… Her eyes only harden as his head meets the bricked wall, greeting it with a sickening _crack_. "_Sebastian_," Madam Red hisses, awareness leaving her lips thin with hatred. "What the _fuck_ are you doing here?! Leave this place! Leave!"

_At last. _Sebastian's head bows, in both exhaustion and obedience. "Yes, Madam," he murmurs, and undoes his own chains— slips thin wrists through wide manacles—, flinching as cold air is allowed to meet raw flesh. "At once."

"But wait—!" Delusions return, ever more rapidly… a shroud again lowers behind raspberry eyes. The stained woman keens, restless fingers flexing as she curls into a ball; when he stands, she immediately latches herself onto his ankle, digging sharp nails _in_ and refusing to let go. "_Where is she?! Where is my sister? _Bring me my Rachel—!"

Her victim does not pause. He _cannot_ pause. If he does, he knows he'll stumble and fall… "I'll go get her now, Madam," Sebastian promises, gingerly attempting to detach himself. He needn't have bothered; as soon as he speaks, talons retracts. Bellows are silenced. And Madam Red (red for a whole new reason, now, as she writhes upon the grimy floor) sits up promptly, wide-eyed and sniveling, for she can't help but believe him.

"Wait here," the prostitute soothes…

And he goes off to find Ciel.


	12. IV

**IV. **

There is a door at the end of the hall.

Of course, there are many doors in the House: double and single, all carved from silk-smooth cherry wood, engraved with symmetrical patterns of rectangles and squares. These doors lead to his suite, his aunt's quarters, the dining room, and the individual abodes of the transvestites…

However, what lay beyond _this_ door, at the end of the longest, darkest, dankest hallway, had always been a mystery to him. A forbidden destination, steeped in threats and ambiguity. But no longer. For today he had finally had enough; could no longer resist the alluring temptation, could no longer tolerate (let alone blindly follow) the madam (and Sebastian)'s first and foremost-cardinal rule: Never Ever Open It.

And so he had.

And now he is here, at the top of this discovered landing: crouched behind the picketed fence that serves as a banister. It is a horrible hiding place; he is completely exposed to anyone who chooses to use the upper hallway… but he cannot help it. He can't bring himself to move. There is too much to see right here, and it's all so captivatingly _new._ Never before has he seen a house in such decay— the wood around him has grayed, and splintered; there are spider webs in every dusty corner… it is moist, and murky, and smells like mold. He cannot tell how large this unexplored palace is, due to the gloom, but from the echoing depths of each long corridor he can hear laughter and screams—moans that do not sound like pain, and the creaking of pulsing, shifting floorboards.

So much to see, and it's all very curious. Nothing at all like anything he's ever read about in his books…

But the most curious (the most _captivating_) thing of all is happening right bellow him, and he could not pull his eyes away if he tried.

"Tell me what you want." The lilting purr bounces off the shabby, crumbling walls—like the rhythmic _click-clack, click-clack_ of high-riding ebony stilettos. An agile, winsome creature is gliding 'round in twirling ellipses: creeping, spinning, raven curls bouncing as she slinks like a shadow, allowing the very tip of (what seems to be) a dark rod to tickle the top of her bound quarry's head. "Tell me what you want me to do to you."

With a flash of china fingers, the beautiful woman rips out her prey's gag. He splutters, and coughs; for a moment, he looks as if he might be sick. It wouldn't be surprising— even from his high vantage point, Ciel can see his wrinkles. Perhaps he's having a heart attack?

But no: though his greasy cheeks remain decidedly flushed, his panting is not from nausea. Nor fever. And while he is watching his tightly-corseted oppressor very closely, there is no fear in his glassy eyes…

"I want you to touch me," the man rasps, tongue darting out to wet cracked lips. "I want you to—!"

The pervert interrupts himself with a heady hiss, head snapping sideways as the woman snaps her rod. But wait, did it even touch him? No— no, it is _not_ a rod… When Ciel squints, strains, and leans faintly forward (nose poking through the rounded rails), he can see the faintest flash of silver-blue: starlight glinting off of leather.

_A whip. _The boy feels a chill shoot down his spine. But it is an unusual chill… Strange, he thinks: the tingling sensation doesn't just start at the base of his neck, trickle south, and vanish at the nub of his tail-bone, as normal chills do. Instead, this shivering continues to seep downward still: pooling as liquid fire in the base of his belly. It leaves him feeling oddly restrained in the area of his britches.

"The very _audacity_. Is this how you repay your mistress's benevolence? With this degree of effrontery?" the one with the whip scolds in a sinful hiss—and now that the voice has dropped an irate octave (as if finding and falling back into its normal timbre), Ciel can hear that it's not a _woman_ at all. The one in the corset is, in truth, a man.

Quietly amused, the child feels his bright eyes widen. How interesting… Though really, this fact does not _surprise_ him, per say: he knows what his aunt's prostitutes truly are, beneath their foppery and powder. But oh, the one on the floor below is so attractive, so enchanting, he really must admit that he—

_Wait a moment._

The whip makes stunning parabolas, violently slicing the air, before falling with delicious _cracks_ against offending flesh. The bound man snarls in rapture, squirming as if to kiss the younger man's boots… but the whore merely steps upon his cragged face, grinding his heel into the wet, weathered cheek. And as his catlike body shifts, back arching gracefully to accommodate for balance, a shaft of dusky moonlight halos the transvestite's lovely face.

_Sebastian_.

"Apologize to your mistress," Sebastian is ordering, in a voice like melted chocolate: bittersweet and slow, dripping seductively into mouth and ears and leaving one hungry for more. A elegant flick of the wrist; the weapon snaps against the eroding flooring. The bound man isn't the only one to quiver. "Appease me. If you grovel well enough, perhaps I'll grant you the honor of licking my shoes…"

"Enjoying the show, young master?"

For a split-second, Ciel is thankful for the strange, gluey saliva that has congealed in the back of his throat; without it, he surely wound have yelped in shock— and he would have had many, many things to worry about, as a result. As it is, he only has to worry about relearning how to breathe… and, perhaps, concealing the erratic racing of his heart. Though, admittedly, that may be a somewhat pointless endeavor, now: his unexpected companion is standing so close to him (head upon his shoulder, fingers curled around his arms, chest to back and smiling, smiling, smiling), that Ciel is fairly certain that he's heard it already.

"Madam Grell…" the boy chokes, voice soft with surprise and escalating fear. If his aunt were to hear about his escapades, she'd start to lock his bedroom door again…

But the (wo)man in red merely giggles, reaching around to bop the child on the button nose. "A fan of Sebas-chan's, are we?" Grell teases, lashes fluttering behind the thick lens of his spectacles. "I don't blame you, young master. She is my favorite, too… Grace. Poise. Full of so much marvelous malice, and a master at her trade. That whip just _dances,_ doesn't it? It's like a work of art… And that _voice_ of her's…!"

The transvestite's lips peal upward, revealing sharp, pointed teeth; the unnerved child watches as Grell shivers with delight. And this unconventional observation leaves him feeling rather funny inside, for Ciel knows—or, perhaps, can somehow sense—that Grell's tremble is identical to the jolt that had raced down his _own_ spine, minutes ago… the kind of tingle that left a throbbing heat in one's loins.

He may not understand what this feeling means, but he knows with every bone in his body that he does _not_ want Grell to be feeling it for _his_ servant.

"Then again… the young master isn't quite old enough to fully appreciate—let alone _watch_— a display such as this, I think," the one in maroon is continuing amiably, completely unaware of Ciel's murderous glower. "So it would be best if he were to hurry back to the main house and return to his cherry room, before I'm forced to tell Madam Red that I found him sneaking about like a cute little mouse…"

A warning cuddle, a degrading squeeze. The boy grits his teeth, grinding manicured nails into the stiff cotton cuffs of Grell's garnet sleeves. How he _hates_ being treated like a child…! "Or how about this?" Ciel threatens in return, though his voice lacks the sophistication of his captor's airy taunt, "If you don't let go of me right now, I'll tell my aunt that you've been touching me inappropriately." There is a sneer in his low voice, confident and icy… and it only becomes more evident when the prostitute tics, flinching in understanding. "That's right. Even you, her beloved assistant, wouldn't escape unscathed if I did that."

Checkmate. Then again, is it wise to declare victory in the arms of an enemy? Ciel ponders this briefly, feeling Grell's frozen hands ghost over his exposed throat…

But soon the transvestite is pulling away, returning to his feet. "Oh my. How _cold_, young master," Grell complains in a pout, hiding disappointed features behind an extracted and flickering fan. The semi-opaque triangles of cut mesh and accentuating lace flutter like wings, serving to conceal ambiguous features… and perhaps a sneer of abhorrence. "To threaten a lady such as myself— and you call yourself a man!"

"More of a man than you," the boy mutters, though he realizes of course that, really, that's the _point_… not that it matters anyway; the other has flounced away. Even so…

With one last, fleeting glance—backwards, over the railing, at the base of the spiraled staircase; admiring the glorious façade of disinterest upon Sebastian's angled face— Ciel hurriedly collects himself, and returns without protest to the red world beyond the door.

He has much to think about.


	13. XVII

**XVII. **

"What are you thinking about, young master?"

The heavy air is thick with tension, perfume, and iridescent bubbles. And while sweet cologne and ice-white froth are familiar bath time companions, this lingering feeling of anxiety is not. Rather, it hadn't been, until recently. But then, in the light of all that has happened, the boy supposes it's not a surprise: the spell has broken, along with his perception of reality. Gone are the days of laughter, of joking… of building little snowmen out of soap suds, and flicking each other with rose-scented water. Even though Sebastian remains by his side, holding a rinsing bucket and wearing a mask of normalcy, the two have never been further apart. And this is what Ciel thinks about: reflects upon within the confines of the footed tub, twirling a discarded shaver between two careful fingers.

But he cannot tell his caretaker this. So the rift widens a little bit more…

In the wake of his master's silence, Sebastian sighs. "If you don't want to talk, young master, at least put down the razor. You've no need of it," he implores, setting aside the steaming pail in order to reach out—

The razor blade snaps into its handle, and Ciel scoots ostentatiously away, holds the chilled whalebone grip to his exposed and bony chest. Perhaps… perhaps just slightly bonnier than it had been during his last bath. His pale skin is certainly more ashen, despite the healthy glow that the heated water should have been supplying. The sight fills the elder of the two with a gnawing, foreboding sort of concern, but he knows better than to press. Instead, he waits: waits for his charge to calm down, for the sloshing waves to subside, for the hand gripping the shaver to loosen…

After a full minute, Ciel's clenched fist falls beneath the foam, disappearing with a plop. Arm, fingers, switchblade… all remains beneath the rippling surface, submerged; out of sight, out of mind.

"…you know, Sebastian," the child then mutters, head sagging forward as his back makes contact with ceramic, slouching against the bathtub's cool slopes, "perhaps the time has come."

Sebastian lifts a single, thin eyebrow, even as he moistens a soft cloth. "The time for what, young master?"

"For me to leave."

The sudsy towel slips through startled fingers, disappearing in the glacial landscape of froth. "…beg pardon?" the whore questions, voice light with shock. "Did you just—?"

"It's what you've always wanted me to do, right?" Ciel interrupts flatly, turning away from his caretaker's expression of evident surprise. He instead fixes dull eyes on some point in the candlelit distance, drumming clipped nails against the lip of the bath. "Escape, that is. And now I'm willing to try. That is, I no longer want to…"

An awkward hesitation; the boy wavers on words. And then the waffling returns—swiftly, loudly, picking up speed as his thrumming fingers clench, cutting Sebastian off before he can even open his mouth. "Don't get the wrong idea," Ciel grouses, speaking in a rush. "I'm not letting you off the hook, or anything; I told you, you're my slave until I die. The only reason I'm telling you of my plans is because I need your help."

The elder man is visibly confused. "Of course you shall have it, young master," he promises. A hand darts out as if to blanket the boy's frail fist; sapphire closely watches its comforting trajectory… but at the last second (Sebastian's face pained), it lands a careful inch-to-the-left, leaving the tiny hand cold. If Ciel was not yet certain in his plans, he is now. "I swear to help you however I can. You've always deserved so much better than this hell…"

The child snorts. From the dark and bubble-obscured depths, the whalebone razor returns—dripping now, glistening now, pearled droplets of water falling from the smooth, off-white handle as a sort of tepid rain. "Funny you should phrase it that way," Ciel mutters, cerulean eyes darkening with black humor. He returns to his previous task of twirling the shaver, watching it twist in circles between his thin fingers. It's notably more difficult to perform this trick with the thick, glossy grip of the blade, rather than his nightly silverware, but never once do his hands slip… From the corner of his eye, Sebastian watches the rotary razor, as if mesmerized by its globular progress.

"I've been going over this in my mind a lot, as of late," the boy murmurs, hooded stare following the flashing movements of the concealed knife. "Over and over, ever since… that day, and I've realized— I've realized what I've known all along, really." A cutting navy gaze, even more disturbing than the pirouettes of the cream-colored handle. The transvestite can no longer avoid meeting his eyes. "I can't leave this place."

Sebastian feels his heart shudder, stall; he doesn't understand this sudden sinking sensation in his belly, or why there are warning bells ringing in the back corners of his brain. "You're making no sense, young master," the transvestite frowns, setting aside all pretenses of bathing the boy. "You just said that you wanted to escape—"

"This place is my home, Sebastian," Ciel snaps, shaking his head as his servant prattles in bemusement. "My gilded prison. How do you suggest I leave it? Aunt Ann keeps all the doors locked, and I'm under near-constant surveillance ever since Grell… tattled." His pasty cheeks gain color, a strange combination of humiliated red and sickly green. "Even before then, she rarely let me out of my room. I've never even seen the outside of the House…"

"I would help you," Sebastian whispers, words sodden with sincerity. Sodden like his billowed sleeve, which makes contact with the bath in the whore's hurry to grab his charge's hand. "I would help you sneak out— I would stay behind and distract the madam, so that you would have enough time to properly flee—"

"And what good would _that_ do me?" the smaller one scoffs, upper lip pulling back in a sneer. "I know nothing of the rest of the world! How would I provide for myself? How would I live on? For all of your insistence that an education is all I need, you know that's a lie. An education won't help me on the streets."

"You could take over the Phantom Compa—!"

"How do you propose I do _that_?!" Ciel barks a frigid laugh, pushing his caretaker roughly away. "I'm only thirteen. No one would take me seriously! Besides, everyone knows the Phantom Company is no longer in existence; without an available heir, it crumbled when Father died, and subsequent corporations have long-since taken over related markets. And even if that _wasn't_ the case, I lack the knowledge, resources, and business skills to bring it back from the ashes."

A hush lingers after this tirade, acidic and noxious, like the bile that has climbed into Sebastian's throat. Because Ciel is right, and he knows that Ciel is right. He has known all along… _But—_

"But…"

The hesitant whisper makes the prostitute jump; he hadn't expected his thought to have gained a voice. Particularly not the voice of his young master, who—in the wake of his cynical amusement—has calmed quite considerably: gaze downcast and fingers folded, as if trying to protect his heart. "But," Ciel repeats, forehead furrowing in self-conscious determination, "that was only an afterthought, really. Something I realized when thinking things through. Even before I realized that, I knew I could never leave this place."

Coal-gray hair shifts, trembles. And no, he's not shaking—no, he's not choking—no, he's not crying… Hands constricting around his aching chest, Ciel's pinking face snaps upward: and he stares, stares, _stares_ into his lover's hazy, wavering face, begging with his eyes… "I could never leave, Sebastian, because _you're _here," the child hisses, liquid frustration trickling down his splotchy cheeks. "How many times will you make me say it? Are you completely stupid?! Don't you _get_ it?! I can't leave you! Despite it all, God dammit, I can't! And even if I could, Madam Red would know you'd helped me—she'd kill you in a heartbeat. How could I possibly _live_ with myself after that, you moron?! So I thought, maybe, we could run away together, but no— Madam Red is in the prostitution ring. She has contacts everywhere, and they'd find us, and then what? I'd be dragged back here, and again, you'd be dead! Where would that leave us?! And so I thought and I thought— and then, finally, I realized something."

As if in an oncoming epiphany, crazed eyes widen. But no, this is a _memory_ of an epiphany—an echo of a horrifying conclusion that he already knows, and that makes it twice as painful to remember. Ciel's furious outburst brakes off with a gasp, a wheeze, a sniffle, and a whimper of surprise: at some point, without realizing it, he had fallen forward, into Sebastian's waiting embrace. Pruning fingers seize at ebony cloth, yanking down, trying to keep balanced; the solid _realness_ of the coarse cloth is distinctly reassuring, and after a moment he is able to resume…

"I realized…" Ciel pants, in a voice that crackles like autumn leaves, "that even if we can't escape _together_… there is, at least, a way that we will end up in the same place."

The trembling hands that grasp Sebastian's top gradually loosen, and Ciel pushes himself away… But in doing so, he presses more than just his palms against the other's chest. Momentarily befuddled by the unanticipated feel of a long, cold lump, the whore glances down to find that his charge is also grinding the silky handle of the razor into his breast: a forceful offering to take it.

And all the pieces click into place.

"Young mas—!"

"I can't go on living like this, Sebastian," the boy mumbles, each syllable resounding with bone-aching weariness. "Not knowing what I've done. Not knowing what you are. Not knowing what Aunt Ann… I can't take it anymore. I— I'm losing my mind… I can't eat, I can't sleep. I'd rather be dead."

"Young master, no!" Truly desperate now, the transvestite all but lunges into the tub: half-in, half-out as he shakes the child's thin shoulders, not caring how much water slops and splatters upon the pristine bathroom floor. "When I said escape, this isn't what I—!"

"My mind is made up," Ciel informs dully, encircling Sebastian's shuddering wrists with his small hands. "I'll overdose on drugs, hang myself with rope— throw myself out the window, if I have to. But I'd rather not. I was hoping…" His gaze flits sideways, to the shaver that has clattered to the ground.

The prostitute's insides turn to lead. And then fire. And then he has no innards at all—they vanish along with the rest of the world, crumbling into nothingness like the rest of his shattering soul.

"_I can't_."

"I need your help. I need you to do this," the boy breathes— almost _comforts_— loosening his hold instinctively when Sebastian leaps back. The elder of the pair looks as if he's about to throw up. "If you still feel so much as a single ounce of love for me… I want so much for you to be the one who does it. It's the only way I can forgive myself for what I've put you through."

Azure eyes flutter, but their stare remains steady. This has to be a nightmare…

"_No!_" Sebastian almost screams; he remembers himself at the last minute, and somehow manages to soften the screech into a snarl, clamping his own hands over his mouth. But all the while, he continues shaking his head—urgently, frantically— eyes _imploring _as he sinks onto the sopping tile, lacking the strength to do so much as kneel. "How can you even ask such a thing—?!" he hisses, torn between smacking the child and holding him close, refusing to let go. "I'm begging you… don't make me…!"

Ciel's gaze hardens— unmoving sapphires set in porcelain. "You promised," he reminds bluntly, and what a time for childhood stubbornness to set in! "You promised to help me. It isn't your place to refuse. Will you make me order you…?"

A brow lifts, threatening in its simplicity. For they both know that Sebastian will never be able to refuse a direct order; forever and always, the boy has had his servant wrapped around his pretty finger. Ciel will have what he wants, and nothing—no one—will ever deny him. It is a rule of the House, a law of the universe; it is how they have wound up where they are today: with a stone-faced Sebastian holding tight to Ciel, black-tipped nails grinding into his brittle shoulder. Between them, an unsheathed blade gleams, drawing ruby pin-pricks of blood from the center of the child's unblemished chest.

"…you were wrong about one thing, young master," the prostitute whispers huskily, even as he steadies his hand for the plunge. His charge, saintly-still in his caretaker's lethal hold, offers the man a fleeting frown of bewilderment. Sebastian smiles weakly. "You said that I would be yours until you die," he gently explains, refusing to gag on the taste of wet salt. "But that's not entirely true…

"For ever _after_ death, I shall still be yours, Ciel."

Grasping fingers loosen for a momentarily caress; a familiar hand dances over chilled, damp skin, shifting soothingly through silken moonstone locks. A chin tilts, gazes lock… There is nothing but honesty in those melting rose-tea eyes.

Astonishment. Instantaneous, jaw-dropping shock; for a moment, Ciel seems uncharacteristically close to bursting into noisy sobs… But within the span of seconds, his expression has transformed: angelic and misty-eyed as he eagerly meets the thrust of the knife, falling into it as if it were Sebastian's outstretched arms.

And though it isn't spoken, both men hear the words _I love you._


	14. XIII

**XIII. **

"Do you know why I love working in a whore house, Sebastian?"

The voice is unexpected, sultry and sweet. Startled from thoughts of a washcloth and fresh clothing (_any_ clothing), the corset-c lad transvestite pauses beside his mistress, shoulder to shoulder and back to front. Even through the shadows of the tapered, creaking hallway, Madam Red glows like a cold flame—like a bloody harvest moon.

She floats beside him, casting her imperious light, and waits for his answer.

"Why, Madam?" Sebastian asks after a minute, even as his ruby eyes avoid her narrowed gaze. He continues to stare forward, wears a flawless mask of composure. But inside, he finds this whole situation utterly disconcerting: the occasional lashings aside, the mistress has always made it her goal to avoid him at all costs. For what possible reason would she approach him now, speaking as if cued when their shoulders brushed in passing? Whatever it is, the prostitute realizes (with spirit-plummeting certainty) that there is no way that this exchange will end well; this in mind, he makes certain to keep all infection out of his tone: curiosity, disdain, contempt. Nothing in his response but syllable and sound.

Nevertheless, Madam Red watches him suspiciously for a moment, as if mentally dissecting his response. As if mentally dissecting _him_.

"I love it," she eventually hums, a slippery smile sweeping across her pastel face, "because there is no such _thing_ as 'love.'"

The woman giggles brightly, a Champaign-bubble laugh; her gloved fingers clap together as if in twisted applause. Sebastian can only stare.

"Love is a horrible thing—don't you agree?" Madam Red continues cheerfully, turning to beam at her disturbed companion. In the wake of her confession, her pretty face has turned to plastic: cloying and empty, an expression to be found on a glass-eyed doll. "You and I both know, don't we? It ruins lives. Love is what took my sister from me, and it was my love who took my sister!" Another devious chuckle worms its way from her strawberry mouth, all sugar and sweetness and darkly laced contempt. There is lunacy blossoming in her rose bud eyes…

"No, nothing good comes from love," the mistress reiterates with a sigh, still beaming as her amusement fades into the air. "So really, why bother with it at all? That's the beauty of the brothel: here, everything is _fake_."

As if to emphasize this, Madam Red spins suddenly around; her gown of scarlet chiffon billows gently, the fabric screeching as it is forced to mold and scrape against leather boots and pealing wallpaper. Before her corpulent chest, delicate hands are neatly folded— pressed to where her heart would be. But Sebastian finds himself more and more convinced that it has withered away… or she lacks one entirely.

"Have you ever really stopped to think about it, Sebastian?" the woman inquires, titling her head with an innocent grin. "It's like a carnival here! A world of its own, free from the confines of such romantic drivel. Everything is so wonderfully phony… the women aren't women, and the men aren't men. They whisper words of adoration, but it's all contrived nonsense—a plea for money in disguise. And the best part is, both sides know it! They _relish_ the lie! So the customers lie right back, and come again, and again, and again, because they all know, deep down, how _horrible _real love is. Nobody wants it. They'd rather pay for this sham. And that is a beautiful, beautiful thing."

For a spell, there is silence: Madam Red regards Sebastian as if awaiting his approval, hands still clasped to her breast. But the longer he remains stoic, the longer the heavy hush looms between them, the longer the shadows seem to grow… The woman's level breathing picks up speed, blood vessels throb on the backs of her fists, and her sunny smile melts into a grimace as dark as storm clouds.

"But you…" she carefully snarls, taking a single, echoing step forward. "_You, _who above all others should understand my vision, are ruining this world, Sebastian. _My_ world…

"Because you love for _real_."

The phrase hangs: a verbal guillotine over Sebastian's dumbstruck head. Despite his best efforts to remain expressionless, the transvestite feels his gaze widening in surprise. "What are you talking about?" he asks blankly, genuinely bewildered. "I _despise_ my clientele. If allowed, I would readily use this whip to—"

His disbelief is interrupted by a sickening _crack_; when Madam Red's hand returns to her side, it drips with more than just rubies.

"_Don't play stupid with me, you ungrateful scrap of garbage!_" the young woman hisses, suddenly leaping closer—a loaded jack-in-the-box, ever-waiting to frighten a child. And, like a child, Sebastian instinctively stumbles backward, nearly tripping over his own feet; one palm presses itself to his stinging cheek, while the other hastily seeks a point of balance against the wall. "Grell told me about you— about you and my nephew. About your '_lessons_.'"

The word is like a curse— spat and sour and so offensive that Madam Red looks as if she might be sick for having said it. Though, honestly, Sebastian thinks he might be, too: under the mistress's hellfire glare, the whore feels his overheated body turn to ice; the rushing of his ears comes to an abrupt and deafening halt, and he knows that, like his heart, his blood has frozen solid.

Madam Red's elastic mouth twists into a feral sneer. "If it were up to me, I would skin you alive, Sebastian," she confesses, and there is no doubt in his mind that she would live up to this threat. "I would flail you, tar and feather you, slit your throat and laugh as you slowly slipped away. I'm sure that any court of law would agree that you deserve such a fate for your perversions." Her tongue flickers briefly over her painted lips, like a snake before its next meal… but then her predatory expression weakens, losing an eyetooth or two. "Alas, you belong to my precious Ciel, and he would never forgive me if I were to damage you beyond repair," the mistress laments. Her disappointment is palpable, disconcertingly so; even more alarming is the growing glitter of excitement that has softened the detestation in her eyes. "But I won't deny myself a consolation prize. After all, I cannot allow you to soil my darling nephew. I cannot allow you destroy my painstakingly-constructed world. And I cannot allow you the opportunity to undermine me like this again. To that end—" a lazy hand drifts languidly upward, closer and closer to the bruising contours of Sebastian's face "—you will have a 'lesson' of your own, tonight, Sebastian. A bit of 'retraining,' like when you were little."

With mocking kindness, the beaming Madam dabs away a lingering blemish of blood.

"And I will make sure that, this time, you never, _ever_ forget what you've learned."


	15. VII

**VII. **

"Young master, you astonish me."

It is a testament both to how long Ciel has known Sebastian, and to how much blatant sarcasm drips from the older male's tone, that the child is able to perfectly visualize his caretaker's deadpanned expression without once ever having to look up from his shoes.

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" the boy grouses, small fingers inadvertently tightening around Sebastian's. Probably a good thing; in the same moment, he somehow manages to trip over the lower ring of the transvestite's hoop cage, as well as his own feet. It is only their intertwined hands that save him from an intimate acquaintanceship with the floor.

Sebastian allows himself a tactful sigh, head tipping to the right in exasperated despair. "It is one thing entirely to be bad at dancing," he explains, slowing enough to give Ciel a chance to regain his balance. "But your inability to perform so much as a single _step_ is a skill in itself."

"It's not _my_ fault!" the child gripes, and is not-yet-too-old to retaliate with an especially hard stomp on Sebastian's foot. It takes a bit of fancy maneuvering to shuffle his leg beneath his partner's voluminous petticoats, but (with a precision that he consistently fails to incorporate into the dances themselves) he manages—and smirks with satisfaction when his servant winces noticeably.

"If it's not _your_ fault, then whose is it, pray tell?" Sebastian presses with a polite smile: a close-eyed, tight-lipped grin that oozes irritation and waning patience. "The shoemakers?"

Ciel snorts. "Obviously it's _yours_," he retaliates, donning a fearsome sort of glower. "You're too big! When would I ever dance with someone so tall? For that matter, when would I ever dance with anyone at _all?!_" And in that moment, he reaches his limit; he is officially fed up. With a growl of frustration, the child rips himself from his servant's encircling embrace— Sebastian quickly lets go, as if in fear of losing his arms— and makes a show of stomping to his favorite armchair, dropping down into it with a gloomy _plop_.

The transvestite watches this little tantrum silently, considering. "…we'll leave your dance lessons at that, for the day," he quietly concedes, knowing a lost cause when he sees one. "Perhaps the young master would enjoy practicing his violin?"

Ciel's already-scowling face contorts into an expression of bitter contempt. "_No,_ the young master would _not_ enjoy practicing his violin," he returns, crossing stubborn arms over his button-up waist coat. "I'm sick of all of these lessons in etiquette and class! What good are they? I rarely leave this stupid room, and am _never_ allowed outside of the House. What's the point?"

Argument made, Ciel wiggles himself into the very depths of his chair's velvet cushions: a wordless refusal to leave the seat. (Two-year-olds the world over would be so proud.) Sebastian can't resist another sigh at the sight— and this one is decidedly less elegant. More of a blow-out-your-cheeks-and-rake-tired-fingers-though-your-hair sort of hiss, rather than the demure, albeit irritated, exhalation of a lady. "The _point_, young master," he then retorts, gliding over to kneel beside his charge's coiled armrest, "is that you _will_, one day, leave this place. You're going to take over your father's old company and escape, remember? When that time comes, you'll need to know how to hold yourself. How to act when under the scrutiny of society."

Sebastian offers an encouraging smile… and despite his best efforts to remain obstinately indifferent, Ciel can't keep his drifting eyes away. Within moments (and without his realizing it), the child's woven arms have loosened, and he twists—just slightly— in his caretaker's direction, scrunched face softening as Sebastian's fingers brush a tender trail from temple to throat.

"…fine, whatever," the boy eventually grumbles, batting Sebastian's affectionate hand away— all while decidedly ignoring the prickling heat that continues to linger beneath his pinked skin. "As long as you promise it's not a complete waste of my time… though really," Ciel pauses, suddenly thoughtful; with surprising enthusiasm, he turns completely to the left, facing his servant straight-on. "How do _you_ know all about etiquette? You're just a whore."

The transvestite blinks. Considers. And then, with all the dexterity of an actor switching opera masks, he graces his master with a second, wholly different sort of beam: this one merry and wholly ambiguous. Though he'll never admit it, the cold, synthetic feel of these everyday disguises makes Ciel sorely miss the brief moments of sincerity— the smiles that add a twinkle to his servant's dark-doe eyes. Smiles like the one he'd shared moments before. The boy almost mourns its passing.

"But of course," Sebastian eventually decrees, and—as he's already on his knees— uses the occasion to bow, "I make it my duty to obtain knowledge on everything and anything that the young master might need to know, so as to be of further assistance to him."

The lovely face slants downward in a wave of bouncing curls. And Ciel smells opportunity.

"'Everything and anything?'" the boy repeats, voice deceptively mild, as he crosses sinuous legs and sets his pointed chin: mounts it haughtily on the back of his lightly-folded fist. His lashes quiver with excitement when Sebastian's head bobs in a faint nod. An ignorant fly before a hungry spider… "I see. So if I should need to know about sex…?"

Oh, the fly doesn't stay ignorant for long. Startled, Sebastian's bent head snaps upright; through the haze of resultant tunnel-vision, he can almost see the glistening white web that radiates from his master's soul. More frightening still: he can feel sticky strands of spider silk tightening around his own. His heart constricts painfully in his chest…

But with a performer's practiced grace, his shocked expression smoothes over almost before it can be noticed. (_Almost_. Ciel's rapacious grin is widening…) "I shouldn't think," the prostitute tries charily, "that such carnal knowledge would be necessary for a noble such as yourself—"

The child's scoff of derision drowns out the rest of the rebuttal. "Sex is a natural part of human existence, Sebastian," he retorts, sounding almost _bored_ as he lounges. Almost, but no: for as he watches his servant's desperate antics, there is a shimmering amusement in his navy eyes. A losing battle is entertaining, indeed. "I need to know about it just as much as I need to know about all other aspects of life."

Sebastian frowns. "I will find the young master a book, then—"

"I don't want a book," Ciel interjects, no longer in the mood to play word games. His gaze glistens with the greed of a toddler who has decided that he wants a new toy… It sends stomach-churning shivers down the transvestite's arched spine. "I want you to teach me, Sebastian. Personally."

The prostitute blanches; the boy smiles cheerily. "People learn things more easily, more _completely, _though hands-on experimentation and visual demonstrations, correct?" Ciel continues in a genial simper, half-lidded eyes forever locked on his servant's stony face. Templed fingers drum an amiable tune, waiting for surrender. "You always say to do a job thoroughly."

There are only straws to grasp at, now. "Books have always suited you well before, young master," Sebastian tries, though the attempt is half-heated. He knows his charge's answer even before he opens his mouth—

"Only because I've had no other option," Ciel reminds, and sounds properly sulky about it. "I'm not allowed out. I have no contacts, guests, or friends. If I want to know anything about the outside world, I must rely on the text of those who have seen it. There is one thing, and one thing only, that those of this House can teach me…" Eager lips part, moistened and pink—the tip of the child's tiny pinkie is playing with the lower arc of his smile— "…and I want you to be my tutor, Sebastian."

_Want._ Not need. Not an order. There is still a chance—

"I must refuse, young master," the whore repeats adamantly, giving his head a firm shake. "As I've said before, it's not my place to do—"

"You know what it's 'not your place to do,' Sebastian?" Ciel counters, pointedly talking _over_ his servant's weak rebuff. With willowy grace, he untangles svelte legs—lifts himself from his throne with a roll of the hips, looming before his kneeling caretaker. His shadow meets, melds, mixes with the black of Sebastian's gown; demanding fingers reach, yank, tilt. Narrow noses nearly collide as the child leans in, the heat of his flesh unable to counterbalance the chill that radiates from his sickeningly-sweet sneer. "It's not your place _to disobey me_."

He has no choice but to surrender.

"…fine, then," Sebastian whispers, and submits to his fate. Utilizing much-hated and much-envied skill, the prostitute easily renovates his façade of misery: tweaking the mouth, lowering the lashes, molding his white-china mask into an expression of coy promise. "If it will motivate you to study harder in your other subjects… I will reward you with a lesson on how to kiss."

And Ciel, blinded by the intoxicating joys of anticipation and victory, fails to notice the lingering shame in his caretaker's pledge.


	16. XV

**XV. **

Ciel has never been to the cellar. Just one of many rooms—many _floors_—, really, that he has been banned from: locked and labeled under the title of 'forbidden.' And during any other situation, he would have been thrilled by this unexpected chance to venture down into the level's dank depths. He would have loved to waste long hours exploring the moist gloom, the torch-lit darkness; would have been pleased to amuse himself like any other subterranean creature, prowling bricked nooks and moldy crannies and rusting doors crafted from iron bars.

But the child is in no mood to enjoy himself, now.

"_Aunt Ann!_" His furious bark echoes three-fold through the winding hall, and he is subconsciously impressed by the magnitude of its ring; it even manages to drown out the impossibly-loud clatter of his wooden heels. He is not the only one surprised by his voice's infuriated grandeur: half-swallowed by shadows, reclined in a strangely-thick puddle, Madam Red gives a visible jolt.

"Rachel…?" The mistress's voice warbles feebly; she sounds as if she's waking from a nightmare.

"Don't you 'Rachel' me!" Ciel snarls, whipping around the grated half-wall and into the cell where his aunt resides. As he draws near, she slowly detaches herself from the black-scarlet muck; her wobbling feet provide little support. Within moments, she is toppling forward again—arms looping around her nephew's frail neck. She smells of sour alcohol, ammonia, and urine. _Disgusting. _The child scrunches his nose in repugnance, even as he gives her a violent shake. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, Madam Red!" he snaps, irritation pulsing in the veins of his neck. "I am _not_ my mother! I am Ciel Phantomhive, and my servant just came to me in _shreds_ saying that you sent for me. What the hell did you _do_ to Sebastian?!"

"…Sebastian?"

Glassy, vacant eyes, at one moment full of cataleptic amusement, narrow at the name. Sharpen. Focus. Burgundy marbles become vivid rubies; creeping hands— previously dyed the same color— dig deep into Ciel's upper arms. The abrupt change startles (_frightens_) the captured child; his face drains of color as his aunt's love-crazed eyes lock with his own, her own features waxy and softening, softening, softening…

"_Sebastian_…" she whispers again, and offers Ciel a brilliant smile: a flame in the night. Cold fire. Deadly. Against his will, the boy feels a faint tremble race down his now-buckled legs, the sensation spurred onward by his aunt's dancing hands. While he'd been distracted by the unusual alterations of her disturbing appearance, she had loosened her sawing grip—now, her fingers are busily skimming and smoothing over Ciel's clammy face, caressing it like a treasure she'd only recently rediscovered. It pleases her: the mistress's lips are pulling back, back, back, sharp teeth flashing star-white in the torch-glow. They match the little flecks of starlight glimmering in her eyes…

"Do you remember, my darling?" the madam suddenly murmurs— words like saccharine syrup— as her expression mutates into a horrifying parody of its usual kindness. "Do you remember those many months ago, when we last spoke about Sebastian? You told me how you'd always want him around. How your feelings would never change."

A giggle burbles in the back of her throat, staining her voice with resentful derision. And it only grows louder as the minutes pass: bubbling up and out and into the air, lingering like a noxious mist of odium and irony. Yes, the contemptuous laughter is a drug: it poisons his ears, accelerates his heart— he can hardly breathe. Yet, all the while, he can feel _her_ breath on his cheek…

"I think we should test that theory, my precious one," Madam Red drunkenly coos, tipping over, low, and far, far too close. He can feel her colored lips pulling, pursing; nipping the shell of his ear.

And she whispers:

"_How about I tell you a secret…?_"


	17. XVIII

**XVIII. **

Hot crimson slips down pristine porcelain.

Gummed grooves of white become rivers of scarlet.

Suspended supernovas of burgundy blossom, fade, then explode once again, spiraling off into strands and garlands of claret. The aqueous world, once made of liquid crystal, is now a congealed garnet.

Red. Everywhere. Red. Grell. Red. Screaming. Red. Razor. Red. Dripping. Red, Red, _Blood_. _Mocking him_…

But Ciel is untouched. Ciel is unstained. Only Ciel—bone white and ethereal atop the glass-smooth surface of the water—remains mysteriously free of the hellish shade. Floating, angelic, pure. Sebastian would have it no other way. For it proves that his charge has finally escaped, has finally been freed from the House of Red…

And to him, nothing else matters.


	18. III

**III. **

"What the hell do you think you're doing here, you little piece of shit?"

Weeks ago, Sebastian thinks, he would have sneered at such language. He would have belittled the fool stupid enough to rely on such derogatory slander; he would have seen them punished for daring to refer to him with such barefaced disrespect.

But weeks or days, months or years, it doesn't matter. The past is the past, and the present is the present, and if she does not help him, they will both die.

"Please," the child whispers, voice hoarse from fever and hunger; the words rattle between his sunken cheeks, resounding strangely in his ears. "Please, you know I wouldn't have come here if it wasn't important. I didn't want to resort to this… I know how much you hate me…"

The woman in the doorway glowers, sneering down her nose at the ratted little boy who loiters on her step. "I'd say you're not as stupid as you look, but no—you're even stupider. Why else would you come to me when you know how I feel?" She flourishes dismissive, meshed fingers, smirking with pleasure as she waves Sebastian goodbye. "Now get the fuck off of my property, or I _will_ summon the police."

"Wait!" A gasp, a huff; with great difficulty, the child manages to trip-jump forward, squashing himself between the jamb and the closing door. The woman squawks with rage, whipping an arm back as if to strike her intruder—

But stops mid-swing when Sebastian lifts the bundle in his embrace, carefully rearranging the grimy blankets around the toddler's face.

Ruby eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. "_Rachel…_" the woman hisses, half-stumbling backward. Her hand flops uselessly to her side, trembling. Flexing. Jittering as if fighting the urge to reach out, to seize, to touch a single strand of coal-silk hair…

And so Sebastian holds the swaddled baby ever-higher: the strangest of peace offerings. "His name is Ciel," the little boy pants, still half-in, half-out of the warm, scarlet house. His voice catches the woman's drifting concentration; she snarls, but is now clearly paying attention. "He's barely two years old, and yes, he's Rachel's son. Leave me out in the cold if you must, Madam Red, but please—save him!"

The plea, unsurprisingly, falls on deaf ears. But Sebastian can see—young as he is—that the beauty of the tot has not fallen upon blind eyes; there is _greed_ in Madam Red's quivering gaze, and yes, he thanks God for it. _Anything_ to save Ciel… anything at all…

"…alright," the woman grumbles—as if annoyed, inconvenienced—, even as her impatient fingers make a grab for the slumbering toddler. "I'll take him in. Give him to me, and then _leave_."

_And then go die._ Her true wish reverberates through the grease and slime of the London back alley, lingering tangibly in the garbage-scented air. It doesn't disturbSebastian, nor does it hurt his feelings. On the contrary; he feels utterly relieved: for even if the winter streets claim him, at least Ciel will survive. In conditions like these, what more could he ask for? He'd have done his best, done the Phantomhive family proud… And so, with nothing but gratitude in his aching heart, the twelve-year-old does as he is told.

Or rather, he tries to. But as soon as the baby is jostled, eyes flicking open during the unorthodox exchange, Ciel makes his opinion on the situation known. Without so much as a cautionary snivel, the little one starts to scream bloody murder, pin-wheeling arms _straining_ for Sebastian as his little legs kick and thrash and beat against his aunt. Madam Red jolts in surprise; Sebastian only-just-manages to catch the toddler before he tumbles.

"I'm so sorry!" the boy apologizes, fear coloring his voice as the woman looms furiously, glaring at Sebastian as if Ciel's resistance is entirely his fault. Which, in a way, it is: they'd had nothing and no one but one another for so long, now… "He's just used to being in my arms, at this point. That'll change, though, with time…"

The madam snarls suspiciously. "I don't care for your excuses. Just give him to me!"

And so Sebastian tries a second time. But again, Ciel resists—even clings to his caretaker, now that he knows the pass is coming. Madam Red positively _seethes_ with fury, grinding her teeth over the rueful, desperate mumbles of the preteen.

"Fine then!" she finally snaps, cuffing Sebastian upside the head—as if that would somehow stop the toddler's shrieks. "This is ludicrous! If he wants you that badly, _so be it. _I'll wean you away from him eventually. But as for now, quiet him and get your sorry ass in here!"

The child's eyes widen; that was unforeseen. Hesitantly, as if half-expecting the woman to change her mind and slam the door, Sebastian tip-toes through the entryway, into the bordello's overheated backroom. Compared to the ice-coated alleyways, this place seems like heaven… regardless of the piles of discolored gowns and raunchy panties. "You mean… I can stay, too?" the boy asks cautiously, arms instinctively tightening around the now-gurgling baby.

For a moment, Madam Red says nothing. Perhaps she hadn't heard his question? Squirming, Sebastian begins an internal debate over the dangers of repeating himself, but is soon distracted by something odd: the madam's curious stare. For in fact, she is _not_ ignoring him: she is doing the exactly the opposite. Through the rosy glow of firelight, her intense stare pierces— regarding Sebastian with cruel interest, warped inspiration. Now that they are out of the gloom, she apparently likes what she sees; soon her lips are winding into a simpering smile: sweet as sugar, painful as a toothache… rotting and degenerative.

"You're quite the pretty boy, aren't you, Sebastian?" the woman croons, tilting her head in realization. Her speciously benign tone has soon birthed butterflies of terror in the pit of the child's belly. But he has nowhere else to run… "How about this: I'll let you stay and take care of Ciel for as long as he allows…

"And in exchange, you'll do a little work for me."


	19. I

**I. **

He will never forget this moment.

Never, may he live a thousand years: the wintery light as it peaks through the casement, warming the ivory nursery; the voluminous folds of white-lace curtains that ruffle behind him, cushioning his trembling back; the feel of the chaise longue beneath him, its cobalt fabric as soft as its decorative buttons are hard. Despite his most recent growth-spurt, his feet still dangle off of the davenport's gilded edge, but for once he hardly notices—there are other things, today, more _important_ things, to make him feel like a grown-up.

And Earl of Phantomhive is gingerly handing him one such 'thing' right now.

"Careful to support his head—ah, that's the ticket," the older man keens, animated and encouraging as he easies the newborn into Sebastian's waiting arms, chuckling at the child's poorly-concealed enthusiasm. "Now, don't move him too much. He's very delicate."

Sebastian can see that. In fact, he's surprised that the tiny thing hasn't shattered already; everything from his curled fingers to his hair tuft to the bone structure of his itty-bitty nose looks as fragile as glass… Only _more_ so, for the creature in his arms isn't some window, or dish, or vase—he is a living _being_, and all the more precious for it. This realization, the _awe_ it entails— the sheer splendor of the slumbering babe, still warm and wrinkly from labor… The little boy feels his heart swell five sizes, straining painfully against the confines of his ribcage.

But it is a good kind of pain: the kind of pain birthed from the purest of love.

Sitting beside the mesmerized child, his own heart warmed by this beautiful display of newly-birthed affection, the Earl offers Sebastian a satisfied smile. "Now, you know what this means, don't you?" the man then inquires, reaching out to brush a drooping strand of raven hair behind Sebastian's ear. The child glances curiously upward, intrigued by Vincent's unusual tone: one-half cheerful, one-half solemn.

"No. What does it mean?" Sebastian presses, even as his gaze returns to the newborn. His chest is thrumming again: the little one has curled ever-closer into the heat of his body, wrapping a minute hand around an extended pointer finger.

Vincent beams. Leaning forward, he drapes a long, finery-swathed arm around Sebastian, pulling both him and the baby carefully closer. "Why, it means you've got some new responsibilities, doesn't it?" he explains, giving the older boy's shoulder an affectionate rub. "You're going to have someone to look out for, and play with, and teach. You're going to have someone who'll depend on you, who you'll need to protect. It will be your duty. Do you think you can handle it?"

The Earl grins again, playful and proud; the expression adds pink splotches of delight to Sebastian's ruddy cheeks. As if he needed further encouragement— he is already nodding so passionately, so earnestly, that he risks self-inflicted whiplash. Absolutely adorable; the sight somehow manages to make Vincent's already impossibly-sunny smile even warmer.

"Oh? You can?" the Earl presses, cocking an eyebrow. "In a manner befitting the Phantomhive family?" The question is light and airy—a tease, the child knows. A friendly jibe. Even still, he takes it (takes everything) as seriously as an heir should.

"Yes, I can!" Sebastian verbally assures, holding all the tighter to the treasured bundle in his arms. "I promise, Father. You'll see… I'll be the best big brother ever!"

**XXX**


End file.
